A Snatcher's Christmas Carol
by A Touch of Madness
Summary: It's his first Christmas out of Azkaban, and Scabior has a plan to make the festive season very merry. But fate, it seems, has a plan of its own, and Scabior is about to come face to face with his own sorry life. Rated M for Language, because that's how the boy rolls.
1. Regulus's Ghost

"Is that it?" Scabior counted the meagre amount of money the smirking witch had given him.

"Twenty Galleons. The going rate for four mudbloods."

"It's Christmas," Scabior said. "Don't I get a bonus?"

The witch rummaged around in her drawer, before depositing a handful of Pepper Imps on the counter. "Merry Christmas," she said flatly, flicking her wand and turning away from him as a metal grille fell between them.

"Thank you very much, I don't think," Scabior called through the grate. "You should ask Father Christmas to take that wand out of your arse." Tutting bitterly, he swept out of the small office into the corridor. The Ministry was deserted, the employees having long since headed home to be with their families, and his footsteps echoed in the empty halls.

In the atrium, his Snatchers waited, their hands held out greedily for their share of the spoils. He meted out four Galleons to each of them, ignoring their calls of 'Merry Christmas' as they sped to the fireplaces, flooing to their own holiday destinations.

He had turned to make his own exit, when a large, hairy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"You forgetting something?" the rasping voice of Fenrir Greyback hissed in his ear.

"What?"

"Something you want to give me?"

"I don't see no mistletoe," Scabior grinned. "Guess you'll have to wait until New Year's Eve and catch me at midnight, mate."

"You owe me three Galleons, _mate_," the werewolf said emphatically, smiling as Scabior's face dropped.

"You are joking. It's Christmas Eve. I've only got the four that tight bitch just gave me. I'll give it you back in the new year, yeah?"

"No can do, Scab. I need it. Now."

Scabior's eyes narrowed. "Greyback, seriously. Alls I've got is four G's."

"Be grateful I don't charge interest then. At least you've still got one," the werewolf reached into the Snatcher's pocket and removed three of the large gold coins. He tossed them in the air, grinning at the outrage on his colleagues face. "Merry Christmas, Scab. Don't spend it all at once."

Scabior found his voice as the ragged robes of Fenrir Greyback disappeared in a spark of green fire. Spitting expletives at the now empty fireplace, he pulled the remaining coin from his pocket. "Merry fucking Christmas," he seethed.

It was Scabior's first Christmas as a free man for twelve years. The plan had been to rent a room at The Leaky Cauldron for the night. Two Galleons would have got him a small room, providing he could persuade Tom that it was in his best interests to keep Scabior on his good side. And the other two would have bought him a few drinks, at least until he found someone else to do it for him. Scowling, he stepped into the Fireplace.

The floo network ejected him in the guest entrance to the Ministry and he hopped lightly down from the toilet seat. Opening the door, he caught sight of his reflection in one of the smeared and dirty mirrors above the broken sinks that lined the wall opposite the stalls. Trying to ignore the ever-persistent smell of stale urine, where drunken muggles had mistaken the facilities for working ones, he examined his face. His mood cheered slightly as he studied himself, licking a finger to wipe away some of the excess eyeliner around his eyes. He pulled a few tendrils of his messy brown hair around his face, framing it, before neatening his scarf. Not bad, he thought to himself. If he played his cards right, he might still be in luck tonight. He had one Galleon, after all. That was enough for a couple of drinks at the Cauldron. After that, all he needed to do was find a woman who'd be happy to keep him in drink, and provide him with a warm bed, and he'd make sure she got her money's worth. If he were especially lucky, she might even let him stay for Christmas dinner.

"In for a knut…" he muttered to himself, passing the Galleon over the back of his fingers as he left the toilets. He took the steps to the street level two at a time, already mentally rehearsing lines to use in ensnaring a lonely witch. He didn't see the traffic cone an earlier group of celebrating office workers had left behind. In horrific slow motion, he felt himself lurch forwards, reflexively splaying his hands to break his fall. He watched, horrified as the Galleon soared through the air in a golden arc, landing in the road. It bounced three times, before rolling down a drain.

Scabior screamed in frustration, drawing his wand, forgetting the Statute of Secrecy as he picked himself up and stumbled to the drain. "Accio Galleon," he bellowed, pointing his wand into the murky vent. But it did not soar into his outstretched hand. "Accio fucking Galleon." But the coin was gone, fallen down beneath London, carried away with the rubbish and detritus, out of the reach of the Snatcher's spell.

"No," he almost whimpered, slumping down on the pavement, his mind reeling from what had just happened. He couldn't go to the Cauldron now, unless he was willing to try and snag unattended drinks from other tables… It was better than nothing, he decided. Better than going back to the camp and freezing his arse off, alone at Christmas. He stood, brushing himself down when his hand came into contact with something sticky and…

"Oh for fuck's sake,' he whined as the smell hit his nose. Gagging, he wiped his hands on a piece of newspaper, before delicately pulling his wand free and casting a cleansing charm on his fingers. "Who the fuck keeps a dog in fucking London?" He pulled off his coat, ignoring the bitter December chill as he scrutinised the back of it. The coat would wipe clean, he knew that, but his trousers wouldn't. He couldn't go out like this. Swearing bitterly, he spun on the spot, not caring if anyone saw as he vanished.

Back at the camp, he'd pulled the trousers off, setting them alight, spitting on a rag in front of the meagre fire and cleaning himself with it. He pointed his wand at his jacket, casting 'tergeo' again and again, until the patch that had been soiled was a pale worn grey next to the black leather. Feeling perilously close to tears, he stumbled into the freezing tent and pulled on another pair of trousers, before examining the bottles left behind. He found a mouthful of Firewhiskey in one of them and drained it, before crawling into his sleeping bag. Shivering, he lay there, depressed, cursing Fenrir Greyback over and over until finally sleep pulled him under.

When he awoke, there was a pale glow in the room, and he could see his breath clouding as he exhaled in the dim light. Scabior froze, straining to hear, trying to assess where the light was coming from, whether the bearer was friend or foe. He moved slowly, reaching for his wand, when the intruder coughed.

"I know you're awake," it said and Scabior sat bolt right up, turning to the voice.

"But it can't be…" he said. "Reg?"

Regulus Black grinned back at him. "In life, I was, yes. Merry Christmas, Scabior," he said.

"What the fuck? Where the hell have you been? I heard you was dead…" Even as he spoke, he took in the appearance of his oldest friend. Regulus sat on a dilapidated deck chair, resplendent in his former school uniform, his face still that of an eighteen year old boy.

"You are dead," Scabior said flatly and Regulus nodded chirpily.

"Yup."

"How?"

"I can't go into that, mate. It's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?"

"To teach you a lesson. Or to try."

"What the fuck are you on about?"

Regulus sighed. "Things have to change, Scabior. What happened to you? You used to be so… Well, you had dreams, at least. And where are you now? Stuck in a tent on Christmas Eve, alone."

"Piss off," Scabior said grumpily. "As if I need you to point out how fucking tragic this is. I sincerely 'ope you didn't come back from the fucking dead just to tell me to sort my life out."

"But I did," Regulus said sadly. "You're on a slippery slope, Scabior. You've already been to Azkaban. And if things don't change, then…"

"Then what? Then what?" Scabior said.

"It's not for me to say."

"Well what the fuck can you say?"

"You're going to be visited by three ghosts tonight."

"You are joking?"

"I wish I was. First, Christmas Past. Then Christmas Present. Then, finally, Christmas Yet To Come. They're going to show you what you need to do."

"Can't they all come at once? I was trying to have a kip."

Regulus ignored him. "The first will come at midnight. Be ready," he smiled sadly as he stood.

"What? Reg, wait! Where are you going?"

"I've played my part, Scabior. It's up to you now. Please, listen to them. Before it's too late," he nodded at his old friend, before leaving the tent.

"Regulus!" Scabior shouted, scrambling out of bed and after the spectre of his friend. But he was gone, the ground outside the tent already sparkling with frost.

"Fuck," Scabior spat, his head jerking upwards as somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll. His eyes grew slowly wider as he counted the chimes. Ten, eleven… twelve.

Midnight.

And behind him, from inside his tent, he heard another voice cough softly.


	2. Christmas Past

He stood in the cold, shivering, before breaking into a sprint. He darted through the trees, flying over fallen logs and bare bushes, putting as much distance between himself and the tent as he could.

But as he reached a clearing, he realised that running had made no difference. On the log before him, sat a face he'd never thought he'd see again.

"Hello, Scabior," Albus Dumbledore smiled at him. "Merry Christmas."

Scabior's jaw dropped. "You."

"I know. It was quite the surprise to me also, I must confess."

"I did not fucking sign up for this," Scabior said, his teeth chattering.

Dumbledore acknowledged his curse with a patient flick of his eyebrows, before pulling off his own cloak and standing, holding it out to the Snatcher. "I rather find I don't feel the cold as I did before, so please, take it."

"I ain't wearing a ghost cloak."

"Be sensible, Scabior. It's far below zero out here tonight. Unless your plan was to join me on the spectral plane?"

Chagrined, and embarrassed at the way Dumbledore could still make him feel like a silly schoolboy, Scabior snatched the cloak from his former headmaster, surprised at how tangible it felt, how real. He slung it over his shoulders, almost immediately enveloped in warmth. "Now what?" he said ungraciously. "You're what, Christmas Past? What's that about then?"

"I'll show you," Dumbledore said, taking Scabior by the arm and twisting.

They arrived in the entrance hall to Hogwarts.

"I thought you couldn't apparate in Hogwarts?" Scabior asked.

"Ah, well, being a ghost has its privileges."

"I ain't a ghost," Scabior said.

"And yet, you are here with me."

Scabior looked at Dumbledore out of the corner of his eye. "Right. So what's all this then? Why am I here?" At the sound of laughter he turned, his eyes growing wide as he saw his younger self skidding down the hall, robes flying out behind him, with Regulus Black. They threw open the doors to the Great Hall, revealing tables laden with food, turkey, potatoes, tureens of buttered peas and parsnips. The twelve trees which decorated the hall every year stood twinkling under the enchanted ceiling, a light dusting of snow falling from it, evaporating before it could dampen the heads of the children sat feasting under it.

"What the fuck?"

"Language, Mr Scabior, please. This is a school."

"Can they hear me?" he asked, incredulous.

"They cannot. But this remains a place of learning and it would be a kindness to me if you could respect that."

Scabior rolled his eyes, but complied, compelled by the ingrained relationship between student and teacher. "Is this some Time-Turner bulls- poo? I thought they was all destroyed."

"No Time-Turner. Just good old fashioned magic. Now, if you'll follow me…" Dumbledore entered the hall, pausing to nod at his younger, and distinctly more alive, counterpart on the high table. He crossed to the Slytherin table and took a seat opposite where the young Scabior and Regulus were piling their plates with food. Cautiously, Scabior followed him, sitting down and scrutinising himself, his blue eyes too large in his small head, his hair short and scruffy, his now-chiselled cheekbones still plump with childishness.

"I was a scrawny git," he said finally.

"First years usually are, as I recall," Dumbledore said mildly.

"This is my first year?" Scabior asked thoughtfully. When Dumbledore didn't reply, he turned his attention to the conversation his younger self was having with his former best friend.

"I don't mind at all," he was saying to Regulus. "Maybe next year."

"Yeah," Regulus replied through a mouthful of stuffing. "Definitely next year. My mum will spoil us rotten. My brother will be there, but he mostly stays in his room anyway. It's great though, all of my aunts and uncles come over and it's a big party. Our house elf cooks a huge feast, maybe even bigger than this one. My cousins Bella and Cissy might come, although Bella's getting married next year, and Cissy will probably want to go to her boyfriend's."

"Who's her boyfriend?"

"Lucius Malfoy."

"I dunno who he is."

"You will, one day. Dad reckons he'll be Minister for Magic someday. What about you? What are your Christmases like?"

Young Scabior paused, and his older counterpart held his breath as he remembered why.

"Not like this," he said finally.

"Does your house elf do a feast, at least?"

Young Scabior coloured. "We don't 'ave one."

"Oh. Well, does your mother do it?"

"She ain't really like that…" young Scabior replied quietly. "We're not big on Christmas. She reckons it's a bit Muggley. S'why I didn't get no presents sent here. Mum'll be saving 'em for when I go home," he added with an air of defiance. Scabior cringed in unison with his younger self, remembering how it felt to brace for rejection, to prepare for Pureblood snobbery to cut his friendship dead.

"Maybe if you come to ours, you'll change your mind," was Regulus's only comment and Scabior watched as his eleven year old face flushed again, though this time with gratitude.

"I didn't know what he'd say," he turned to Dumbledore. "'im being a Pureblood proper like, from one of the old families. I'd been dead careful not to let on about what my house was like. I knew it were only a matter of time, but he didn't care at all. As long as you thought Sirius was a prat and all Gryffindors were tossers, Reg didn't mind nothing. He was a good lad."

"You both were, back then, if memory serves," Dumbledore said mildly.

"Yeah, well…" Scabior turned back to where Regulus and he were pulling a cracker, the bang echoing across the room as they laughed delightedly. He smiled to himself when Regulus put an oversized sombrero on his head, the smile widening as Regulus pushed the Gobstones set the cracker had yielded to his past self.

"You can have it," Regulus said. "Give you something to do until you go home and get your other presents."

He watched as the smaller, skinnier version of himself tucked the Gobstones set away carefully, before pulling another cracker towards them.

"I think that's enough here," Dumbledore said, standing. "There's more to see."

"What? But…" Scabior looked back across the table, but there seemed to be an odd mist between his past and present selves, and even as he watched they faded away, the two young boys laughing and eating. He felt Dumbledore take his arm and steer him around, and then they were in the Slytherin common room.

It was decorated, tastefully and elegantly in green and silver, the tree shining in the dim light from the various lamps in the room. On a sofa, in front of the fire, Scabior could make out two heads just visible above the green leather back. Frowning, he crossed the room, leaving Dumbledore by the door as he approached the couple.

It was himself, of course, older than in the last scene, but younger than he was now. He remembered it well, he was fifteen and he was sitting with pretty, dark haired and dark eyed Euphemia Burke. He'd been waiting all night for the Common Room to empty, hoping she wouldn't rise and go to bed with the others. As the crowd in the room had petered out, finally leaving the two of them, both pretending to be engrossed in their books, he'd felt both fear and excitement in his stomach. She'd crossed the room, shivering dramatically, pretending to want the warmth from the fire.

"So, you're going to Reg's tomorrow?" she said in her soft, sweet voice and he'd nodded.

"Yeah. And you're going home?" he'd replied.

It was Euphemia's turn to nod. "We should really get some sleep. The train leaves at eleven."

Scabior watched as his own face fell. "Yeah, s'pretty late." His younger self pulled at his hair, already unruly, fanning around his young face.

"Well…" Euphemia stood, and for the first time Scabior saw what his past self had not, the look of disappointment on her heart shaped face. She walked to the entrance to the girls' dormitories and paused, looking over at where he sat. Scabior watched as his younger self sat glumly in front of the fire, before realising she was still in the room. His slow turn to look at her was almost comical now, to the older Snatcher's eyes.

He smiled when she looked deliberately up at the ceiling, at the mistletoe that curled there, before looking directly back at his younger self.

"Go on, lad," he egged himself on, not missing Dumbledore's faint chuckle behind him.

As if he'd heard his future self's admonishment, fifteen-year old Scabior rose and crossed the room, standing in front of Euphemia. Slowly, to give her the chance to move away, he lowered his face to hers, cupping her cheeks in his hands when he felt her lips give way under his.

Scabior winced slightly watching himself kiss the dark-haired young woman. "Is that what I look like when I'm snogging?" he asked, his head tilted to the side as he watched the young pair navigate their first kiss. Both Scabiors smiled the same smile when she finally pulled away, admiring the blush on her cheek.

"You should write to me, over Christmas," she'd said.

"I will," he'd replied.

"Merry Christmas, Scabior," Euphemia added, darting forward and planting another kiss on his cheek before she'd turned and left.

Younger Scabior had raised his hands to his lips, running his fingers across them before he too left the room, leaving his older self and their headmaster behind.

"My first kiss," Older Scabior said, almost wistfully. "Effie Burke. I'd fancied her for ages, but I didn't reckon she'd be interested in me. Not with the likes of Rasmus Parkinson after her. And then she was. Well, for a bit."

"Indeed," came the mysterious response.

Scabior rounded on Dumbledore. "What's the point of all this? Why are you showing me all this shit? I know it 'appened, I was there for it, weren't I? What's the good in rehashing it now?"

But Dumbledore just shook his head and the Slytherin common room faded behind him. As Scabior watched, it re-appeared, the same layout, the same decorations, even the same boy and girl standing in the doorway to the girls' dormitories. This time though, they were older, taller, a light shadow of stubble visible on the boy's cheek, the girl's round cheeks smoothed with burgeoning adulthood.

"No," said adult Scabior, though his voice was almost immediately drowned out by his younger counterpart.

"You can't be serious," he was saying. "Effie – it's Christmas. It's our anniversary, for the love of Merlin. You can't do this to me."

The girl looked down at the floor, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Scabior. I just… there was never going to be a good time. This way, we can spend the holidays apart, get used to it. It won't be so awkward when we come back in January."

"Awkward? Are you 'aving a laugh? You're worried about it being 'awkward'? You've just chucked me at Christmas. What am I supposed to do? I didn't put my name down to stay. You said I could come to yours!"

Euphemia looked at him with pity. "Scabior, be serious. How could I take you home at Christmas? My whole family will be there."

"So what?"

"So… it wouldn't work. You wouldn't understand them."

"I'm a Pureblood," his younger self roared at the now cowering girl. "I ain't some dirty mudblood."

"You're not the right kind of Pureblood though, are you, Scabior?" a new voice joined the conversation.

Scabior turned to see another boy, the same age as his younger self, leaning around the door of the common room.

"Piss off, Parkinson," young Scabior spat. "This is between me and 'er."

"That's what she's trying to tell you, idiot. There is no 'you and her'. Not anymore. So for Salazar's sake, stop making such a fuss. You're embarrassing yourself. Come on, Euphemia. We'll miss the train."

Young Scabior drew his wand, but Rasmus Parkinson was faster, sending a Stinging Jinx at his former rival. The jinx hit young Scabior in the face and he fell, clutching his cheek. Without thinking, older Scabior unsheathed his wand and fire a curse of his own at Parkinson, but it sailed right through him, and Scabior could only watch as Euphemia walked past his kneeling self, there was no pity in her eyes now. She didn't look back as she slid her hand into Rasmus Parkinson's and left her former lover alone in the Common Room.

Both Scabiors stared helplessly at the door, before young Scabior stood slowly. He sniffed and his future self turned to stare at him, watching the silvery tracks of tears fall down his face, remembering them for himself. As young Scabior turned and left the Common Room, Scabior once again rounded on Dumbledore.

"You stop this. You stop this now. Why the fuck are you doing this? Take me back to my tent. Take me back now."

"Scabior, these things have already come to pass," he said sadly. "You cannot blame me for that."

"I want to go back. I'd rather be alone in that fucking tent than see all this."

"There is one more thing I must show you," Dumbledore replied, taking the Snatcher by the arm and ignoring his struggles as they twisted away.

They reappeared outside a snow covered cottage, all the curtains drawn, save for a chink in one of them. It was to this Dumbledore drew Scabior.

"No. No. Come on! Have some mercy, will you?" he complained. "I don't want to see this."

"Look," replied Dumbledore, pushing him toward the gap.

Feeling sick, Scabior looked inside. There before him sat Euphemia Burke, sitting in front of a tall, ornate Christmas tree bedecked in silver and green, cradling a small pink bundle in her arms. Scabior turned to Dumbledore. "This is just cruel, you know that? Showing me this. I know what happened. I know she married him and they had a kid."

"Pansy Parkinson," Dumbledore said softly. "Euphemia's only child. She's at Hogwarts now, in your time. In her seventh year. Do you remember how you spent this Christmas?"

There was a sound behind him and he turned to watch yet another younger version of himself, aged around twenty one, staggering through the snow towards the cottage. Ashamed, Scabior stood aside as his younger self peered through the gap, tears on his face as he watched his former love cradle her young baby.

"I believe this was your last Christmas, before Azkaban, was it not?" Dumbledore said.

"JUST TAKE ME FUCKING BACK. I don't need to see my dead mates, or my ex-girlfriends or their fucking offspring. I don't care. I want to go back!" he lunged at his former headmaster, his hands and face tangling in his robes, which seemed to grow a swell around him.

When he managed to finally free himself from their clutches, he realised with a start he was back inside his sleeping bag, in his tent. He sat up, pulling his wand from under the pillow.

"Lumos," he said. He cast the light from the wand around the tent, but he was alone. With his eyes narrowed, he leant out of the bag, scrabbling for his coat and pulling his fobwatch free. A glance at its face showed it was five past midnight.

"Thank fuck," he sighed, shoving the watch back into the pocker. "A fucking dream. Merry fucking Christmas." Annoyed and cold, he hunkered back down in the bag and closed his eyes.


	3. Christmas Present

He was awoken by a rough shake to his shoulder, and his hand darted for his wand, the light from his silent spell filling the small tent.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.

"Dumbledore sent me," Rubeus Hagrid replied, swelling with importance. "Great man, Dumbledore."

"Are you dead?" Scabior asked incredulously.

"Nah. Fit as a fiddle, me."

"So you ain't the Ghost of Christmas Present then?"

"That I am," the half-giant replied.

"Hang about," Scabior sat up. "You just said you ain't dead. How the fuck can you be the Ghost of Christmas Present if you ain't fucking dead?"

"He said yer swore a lot."

"Yeah, well he can piss off, the old crackpot" Scabior muttered, lying down and turning his back on the former Hogwarts Keeper of the Keys.

"I wouldn't insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me," Hagrid said. "And that's enough of that, come on, I've got some stuff to show yeh."

"You ain't dead," Scabior repeated. "You can't be a ghost if you ain't fucking dead. Stands to reason. And I ain't going nowhere. This is a dream, I've sussed it now. You gave the game away, rocking up 'ere saying you're a ghost when you're still fucking alive, you tit. So do one," he pulled the sleeping bag up and over his head.

Without warning, Hagrid lifting the sleeping bag, tipping the disgruntled Snatcher to the floor, where he sprawled in an undignified heap before scrambling to his feet, his wand pointed at Hagrid.

"Last chance, freak. Piss off, now."

When Hagrid roared with laughter, Scabior's patience snapped and he sent a curse directly at the half-giant. Hagrid only laughed harder as it passed through him without even moving a hair on his bushy head.

"Yeh daft prune, I'm a Ghost. You can't curse a Ghost!"

"You ain't a fuckin' ghost, you're a nightmare," Scabior bellowed back at him. "Get the fuck out of my tent."

"All right," Hagrid replied, reaching a dustbin lid-sized hand out and gripping the Snatcher. Scabior barely had time to scream before the two vanished.

"Take me back now, you fucking half-breed," Scabior seethed as his head whipped around. "I ain't never been 'ere before in my life, so this ain't my fucking past. Take me back."

"No can do," Hagrid replied. "Dumbledore told me I was to bring yeh 'ere, so 'ere yeh are. And o'course this ain't your past. I'm Christmas Present."

"Well, this ain't my fucking present, either. My present involves me being in a tent sleeping through this shit."

"Don't yeh wanna know what Reg was talking about?" Hagrid asked.

Scabior paused and looked at him. "What do you know about Reg?"

"I can't say no more, so don't ask. But yeh've got to see this," he gestured a meaty hand around the snow covered village. "Know where we are?"

"Not a fucking clue."

"This is Godric's Hollow. Where young Harry Potter was born. That was his house, there," Hagrid pointed at a cottage, the entire upper right hand side broken away. Ivy had grown into the room behind it, and snow drifted lazily in on the faint breeze.

"So? Is he in there now? Because I could do with ten thousand Galleons."

"It's two hundred thousand now."

"Come again?"

"I shouldn't have said that," Hagrid muttered to himself.

"Two hundred thousand? Are you shitting me? How the fuck do you know that?"

"Ah. Well, I can't say. Other than there was a happening here earlier and You Know Who is miffed by it."

"Potter was here? And The Dark Lord? How much earlier? Take me back to that bit!"

"How many times do I have to tell yer, I'm Christmas Present. I can't take yer back to the past."

"Then get fucking Dumbledore!" Scabior bellowed. "This is my fucking chance! What the fuck was he playing at, showing me shit from when I was a kid, when I could've been 'ere catching fucking Potter with The Dark Lord watching!"

"That's not why we're 'ere," Hagrid said sternly.

"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK. I AIN'T GOING NOWHERE UNTIL YOU GET THAT OLD LOONY TO TAKE ME BACK TO FUCKING POTTER!"

There was a bang and Scabior clutched his face as the half-giant lowered a pink umbrella. "Did you just fucking hex me?"

"I told yeh to never insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me," Hagrid said as he tucked the umbrella away.

"You can't curse me, you're a ghost!"

"I wish yeh'd shut up and let me get on with my job," Hagrid muttered, before lifting Scabior up and throwing him over his shoulder.

Scabior kicked and bellowed as the half-giant carried him through the village, pausing every now and then to show him the inside of homes. He would turn his back to the window, so Scabior could see in, could see the presents left under trees, see the sleeping pets that guarded the homes. Hagrid ambled through the village, walking Scabior through clouds of festive aroma, of turkey roasting slowly over night, of cinnamon and cloves nestled in wreathes on the wooden doors. Scabior sulked and seethed on Hagrid's shoulder, his stomach rumbling as the scents of Christmas surrounded him, adding to his misery.

"What's the point of this?" he asked finally. "Showing me all the stuff I can't have? Because your boss already did that."

"I'm showin' yer Christmas," Hagrid replied. "Showing yer what it's about. Hope and that. Think of all them kiddies up there asleep now, dreaming about tomorrow. All them parents who've worked 'ard and saved their sickles and knuts to get presents. S'a time for family, this. For togetherness."

"Bitchin'" the Snatcher muttered. "That's nice. Can we go now?"

For a moment he thought Hagrid had given in to his request as the village of Godric's Hollow faded from his view. To his disappointment though, it was replaced with the bustle of Hogsmeade.

Hagrid set him down on his feet, steadying him as they surveyed the village. Festive bunting was strung between the wrought iron lampposts, flames flickering merrily in them as shoppers crowded beneath. Each witch and wizard was laden with bags, calling out greetings of holiday cheer at each other. The Three Broomsticks was brightly lit, a wizard standing behind a brazier in front of it, filling paper cones with hot chestnuts.

It was a bright scene, holly on the doors and children laughing as they tossed snow balls at each other. When the silence fell, it rang in Scabior's ears for a moment, deafening him. His eyes followed those of the crowd as they parted, melting away as the troop of masked Death Eaters stalked through the streets, crushing spilled chestnuts under foot as they patrolled.

"Rotten, they are," Hagrid said harshly. "Do yer know how many families ain't together this year, because of them?" Scabior shrugged. "Plenty," the half-giant continued. "And there'll be plenty more before this is over."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"I don't want yer to do nothin'. Just watch. I told yer, Christmas is a time for hope. And not even You Know Who can kill that, much as he'd like to." Hagrid gripped Scabior's arm and dragged him away from Hogsmeade, out through the fields until they were approaching the Shrieking Shack.

"Are you taking me to some kind of shit ghost Christmas party?" Scabior asked as he was forced through the door.

"Look," Hagrid replied mysteriously.

In the corner of the room sat two young boys, one couldn't be older than sixteen, the other maybe a year or two younger. They had the unkempt appearance of persons who had been sleeping rough, shadows under their eyes, dirt under their fingernails. Scabior frowned as he looked at them, not recognising either child.

"Do you think mum and dad are all right?" asked the younger boy.

"Oh yes," the older said. "They'll be fine. They're hiding, like we are."

"I wish we could hide with them, Colin," the youngest said.

"I know, Dennis. But we can't. Harry might need us. We need to stay here, just in case."

The youngest boy nodded and shivered, pulling his threadbare blanket around him.

"Who are they?" Scabior turned to Hagrid.

"Tha's Colin and Dennis Creevey. Mudbloods to you. And before you get any ideas about coming back here in the morning, they'll be long gone. You won't be handing them over on Christmas Day," Hagrid said firmly.

"I wouldn't," Scabior lied. "Why are they here?"

"You heard the lad, they're waiting for the signal from Harry. Had to go in hiding, o'course, being what they are. Didn't want to stay with their parents in the muggle world, so they fibbed. Told 'em they'd be all right up at the school and that they'd stay there all year. They've been 'ere for a while now, foraging for food, stealing when they 'ave to."

"What are they gonna do, if Potter sends for 'em? They're kids."

"Don't matter. They've got the most to lose if Harry doesn't beat You Know Who."

"He's just a kid 'imself," Scabior replied.

"Hope," Hagrid said ominously.

"Hey, Dennis, do you know what day it is?" Colin asked.

"Saturday?"

"No, silly. It's Christmas Day. Merry Christmas, Dennis."

"Merry Christmas, Colin," the smaller boy replied, and to Scabior's surprise, they both grinned at each other.

"I wish we had some food," Dennis said wistfully, his face falling slightly. "Still, we've got each other, at least."

Colin beamed as he pulled a sack towards him. "Don't be daft, Den," he said. "It's Christmas, I've got us a feast." From inside the bag he pulled a handful of chestnuts, clearly scavenged from the floor. He also pulled out two battered looking oranges, a packet of plastic wrapped shop-made sandwiches, an apple, and, with a flourish, a small bar of Honeydukes chocolate. "I've been saving them," he said to his younger brother, who pounced on the tiny selection.

Scabior looked at Hagrid. "That's his idea of a feast? That's their Christmas dinner?"

"What did yer expect? They can't just go into the Broomsticks and order a dinner. Young Colin has been out for the past four days, getting that stuff. The sandwiches are three days out of date, yer know. He got them out of the bin behind the bakery.

"Ain't they got nowhere to go? There must be a safehouse or sommat?" Scabior asked.

"And if there were, do you reckon I'd tell you about it so you can go round and catch them all?" Hagrid said and Scabior looked away angrily.

"They're just kids," he repeated.

"And so were the four yer dropped off at the Ministry yesterday, to spend Christmas in the cells," Hagrid said cuttingly.

"Yeah, well. It's my job," Scabior looked back at the scene, an odd sensation in his chest as he watched the older boy give his half of the sandwich to his younger brother.

"Merry Christmas to us," Dennis said through his mouthful of stale bread and cheese.

"Merry Christmas," Colin echoed, beaming at him.

Scabior frowned. "They've got each other, ain't they? It ain't all bad."

"For now."

"What do you mean 'for now'? They'll be all right, if they keep their heads down, won't they?"

Hagrid said nothing.

"Hagrid, they'll be all right, yeah? They just need to stay out of the way until it all goes quiet. That's all they need to do. Tell me they'll be all right?" Scabior didn't know why he was suddenly so desperate to know whether the Creevey brothers would survive the winter, survive the war. Hagrid was right, it could easily have been them he'd taken in yesterday, and he would never have given them another moments thought.

But now, seeing them like this, huddled together eating stale and damaged food, for the first time he wondered what it was he was doing, understood why Regulus had wanted him to examine himself. From behind, those boys could be them as they were.

"They'll be spared, yeah?" Scabior repeated. "You're just showing me this bit now, to show me the error of my ways and that?"

Hagrid simply looked at him, before guiding him away.

When the left the Shack, they were no longer in Hogsmeade, instead they were outside a small village Scabior didn't recognise. Hagrid led him to a window, wiping some of the snow away so they could peer in. Inside sat Davey and Ratter, two of the Snatchers who worked for Scabior, two of the same who'd taken their earnings and ran from him yesterday.

They were laughing and joking, each with a pretty young witch on their knees, their glasses raised.

"All right, my turn," Davey said, gently placing the girl in his seat as he rose and stood before the fire. He drew his wand, and, after a moments thought, conjured a tatty birds nest which he placed precariously on his head, pulling strands of hay and dried grass around his face. Ratter immediately laughed raucously, almost falling out of his chair as Davey raised a bottle to his lips, pretending to drink before pulling his girlfriend to her feet and humping against her.

At this the entire company fell about laughing, which only made Davey exaggerate more, grinding up against the girl, grunting "That's it, love" as he did.

"You have to be Scabior!" Davey's girlfriend called out, giggling as her partner rubbed against her. "You have to be."

Davey immediately stopped and kissed her cheek. "Nice one," he said.

"He can't be that bad," the other girl said. "Surely not?"

"You don't know him," Ratter replied. "Sometimes I don't know who smells worse, Greyback with his meat or Scabby with his booze. I'm surprised we catch anyone, the smell off of him. He must approach from downwind so they don't get the stink of it."

As everyone laughed again, Scabior felt his cheeks redden with rage. He thought they'd liked him, respected him, these fellows he worked with. He'd thought they were friends, of sorts. And yet here they were, ridiculing him.

"I wonder where he is today," the other girl said.

"Probably in a ditch, too drunk to move," Ratter said. "Either that, or in bed with some manky old witch he tricked into shagging him. Point is, he ain't here, so it's Merry Christmas to us."

"Merry Christmas!" the party called back.

Scabior turned to Hagrid. But the half-giant was no longer beside him.

"Hagrid?" he called, stepping away from the window. "Hagrid?"

He felt the cold before he saw it and he turned, horrified, as the creeping form of a Dementor floated towards him.


	4. Christmas Yet To Come

Scabior fell to his knees as the Dementor crept forward, his hand fumbling for his wand, trying desperately to repel the creature before it kissed him. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded, stripping away the meagre amount of joy he'd known in his life.

"No…" he gasped. But the Dementor did not lower its hood, nor did it try and kiss him. Instead, it curled its finger, beckoning for him to rise. In all his time in Azkaban, he'd never seen a Dementor interact with a witch or wizard before and so he obeyed, stunned, chilled to the bone.

"Are you taking me back there?" he asked fearfully, but the Dementor did not move. "Wait… Are you-? Are you Christmas Yet To Come?" he asked. In response, the Dementor pointed downwards with its hand.

"You've got to be joking…" Scabior said, swallowing. "You're the future? My future? I'm more afraid of you than I am of anything else on this fucking earth. Please, I'll do anything. Tell me whatever you need me to do and I'll do it. Just not back there, please." The Dementor didn't respond, instead moving towards Scabior, who tried to lean away. But the musty shroud enfolded him and he screamed.

It was whipped away from him almost instantly and he fell forwards on his hands, gasping for air. He could feel the chill presence of the Dementor behind him, and his heart told him to run. But he knew now, it was no good. He could not escape this and after a moment he raised his head to see where the foul creature had brought him. Mist surrounded them, and through it he heard voices.

"He's dead," one said. "Thank Merlin, he's dead."

"I'd have killed him myself, if I could have," another voice replied.

"Don't be silly, Ronald," a female voice interjected. "Anyway, Neville said it was Seamus who did it really. He did something to the bridge and it collapsed when they stormed it."

"Still, I would've, given a chance, after the way he was all over you."

"Well, it doesn't matter now," the girl replied. "He's gone. They all are."

"The Dark Lord?" Scabior said, putting two and two together. "He lost?"

The Dementor pointed back into the mist and it cleared, revealing a battle worn couple, arm in arm, the girl's head resting on the shoulder of a red-haired man. And beside them…

"Potter!" Scabior said, scrambling to his feet, his wand drawn before he had time to think. As he moved, so did the Dementor, pressing against Scabior until he whimpered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he begged. "I forgot myself. I'm sorry." The Dementor moved away slightly.

"Will they bury him?" the girl asked.

"I hope they sling him in a hole in the ground with the rest of the scum. And throw You Know Who in on top."

"On top… On top of who?" Scabior asked, as a new coldness seeped into him. They weren't talking about The Dark Lord dying on a bridge. "Erm, Spirit?" he turned to the Dementor. In response, the Dementor swept his cloak-like covering over the Snatcher and again, when it was removed, it revealed to him a new place.

Scabior recognised their location. They were deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, deep underground where the courtrooms lay. He walked slowly through the corridors, heading towards a source of light at the very end. Inside, a small trial was taking place, and he felt a stab of vicious pleasure when he realised the person on trial was the treacherous Ratter. Smirking, he entered and took a seat, glancing around the room for his own likeness.

"Rattigan Mulpepper, you are hereby charged with aiding and abetting the regime of the former tyrant, He Who Must Not Be Named, by using false powers and rights bestowed on you by those who had no business doing so, to apprehend and assault innocent witches and wizards. In addition to this, you are charged with further counts of assault, of intimidation, of theft and burglary, and of suspected murder. How do you plead?" a drab looking witch intoned.

"Not guilty, Ma'am," Ratter replied nervously. "I was under the Imperius Curse."

"Indeed," the witch said, and Scabior was glad to note the bored disbelief in her voice. "And who placed you under the curse?"

"Scabior, Ma'am."

Scabior spluttered, forgetting he couldn't be heard. "You fucking lying shit! You fucking begged me to let you join us!"

"Go on," the witch said.

"He made me do it. He said he'd kill my girlfriend if I didn't and he kept the curse on me all the time. I didn't want to. I tried to fight it, but it was no good. He made me watch while he did all these things, horrible things to the people we got. He hurt them. I can give you names, I remember them all, every single witch and wizard he hurt. He's the killer, not me!" Ratter said desperately, as the witch rustled her papers into order and stood.

"Very well. Please escort the prisoner back to the cells while we review his case."

"It was all him!" Ratter screamed as he was led away by wizards. "It was all him!"

"You're fucking full of it!" Scabior shouted back at him, pointlessly. "You loved it, you lying toerag. Traitorous bastard," he spat finally.

He turned back to the Dementor. "I get it now. I get what Reg meant. I can't trust these folk, they're bad. And if I don't do sommat, this is how it's going to end. Getting stitched up in a courtroom by my so-called fucking mates. Is my trial next? Do I go back to Azkaban if things carry on like this? Is that why you're here? Because Azkaban is my future if I don't do sommat?"

The Dementor moved away, leaving the courtroom, Scabior scrambling to keep up with him, to try and get an answer. Outside the courtroom, he was astonished to see Dennis Creevey, stood with a man and woman who could only be his parents. Their eyes were red, swollen with tears, their faces pale and drawn. And when Scabior saw that Colin wasn't with them, he knew what it was that had made them so unhappy.

"Oh no, come on. He was just a kid," the Snatcher railed at the back of the Dementor. "They just had to stay low, that was all."

Footsteps behind him made him turn, and he saw a tall, solemn black man hold his hand out to the Creevey's father.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Kingsley Shacklebolt said in his soothing baritone. "I know nothing can heal the wound that has been dealt to you, but Colin's sacrifice will be remembered. He will receive the Order of Merlin, First Class, for his attempts to defend the school from the Snatchers."

Scabior's mouth gaped open as the blood rushed to his ears. "No," he moaned. "No, please no. Come on now, not Snatchers. Not me. Was it me?" he implored the Dementor. "Was it me? Did I kill the Creevey boy?"

As sharp sobs filled the air, he turned back to where Mrs Creevey was held up by her husband, her cries renting the air. "Oh Merlin, I'm sorry. I'm sorry…" Scabior begged. But of course, she could not see or hear him, did not know the sorrow he felt.

He turned back to the Dementor. "Please, talk to me. Is this going to happen for certain, or can I fix it? Can I change it? Is this how it is? What if I quit? What if I quit Snatching and help them? Is it too late?" He clawed at the hem of the creature's robes, pressing his face into them, his fear of the future much greater than his fear of the Dementor above him.

When he looked up, they were in a churchyard and Scabior shivered. "I don't need to see his grave; you've made your point. Please, just take me back so I can fix this. Please."

The Dementor pointed at a large stone, hidden in a corner of the cemetery. It was dirty, muddy, clearly uncared for and Scabior frowned; there was no way the Creeveys would leave their son's gravestone in such disrepair. Confused, he approached it, his eyes widening in horror as the words chiselled onto it became clear.

"_Though they wronged us all in life, they lie Defeated in Death, and rest eternal beneath us."_

Below this someone had taken their wand to the stone, carving 'Rot in Hell' roughly beneath it. And then Scabior understood. His eyes raked the stone of the mass grave and there, as he'd dreaded, was carved his own name.

"It was me, that girl and boy with Potter were talking about, wasn't it? I don't even know them, but it was me. I died on the bridge. I'm buried here, in a mass grave, with all The Dark Lord's other supporters, ain't I? Oh no. Oh please no." He sank to his feet at the edge of the grave.

"But surely I can change it. Can I? Can I change it? This ain't happened yet, not Creevey, not me. I can quit. I can hide. I'll fix it, I will."

When the Dementor made no response, Scabior lunged for it, gripping its scaly hand. "Tell me I can change!" he screamed. But the Dementor collapsed in on itself, covering him with the folds of damp material that adorned it. Scabior screamed, his own fingers clawed as he ripped his way out.

Back into the tent, where the pale light of dawn was creeping through the open flap, illuminating his now torn sleeping bag.


	5. The End of It

He gasped for breath, staring at the shreds of his sleeping bag. His heart thundered in his chest, but there was no sign of the Dementor, nor any of the other Ghosts who'd visited him over the night.

If they even had.

He crawled to the opening of the tent, drinking in the cold morning air. What a dream, what a terrible, fucked-up dream. Sitting in the grass, he ran his hands through his hair, exhaling slowly. He wished he'd eaten something, so he could at least blame that. He shivered in the chill, dragging himself, still disoriented, into his tent. He reached for what he thought was his coat, instead, to his horror he realised he'd pulled a soft cloak towards him. Dumbledore's cloak. The cloak Dumbledore had given him to ward off the December air.

He stared at in it horror, his mind whirring with the implications of what it meant. It was real. It was all real. He had been taken to his past, to the present, to his future… No. It couldn't be. It hadn't happened yet. Regulus had said he needed to examine his life before it was too late. And it wasn't too late, not yet. He could change; he could make it all right.

The Creeveys! Hagrid had said they'd be gone, but if he hurried… He pulled the cloak on, ignoring his old jacket, reaching for his wand and apparating, his mind solely focused on Hogsmeade.

He stalked through the village, still too early for even the most excited of children to be stirring. Though he knew it was wrong, he reasoned it was for the greater good, and so it was with barely a flicker of conscience that he broke into The Three Broomsticks, sneaking stealthily to the larder and helping himself to a small ham, some bread, a large chocolate cake and assorted sweets. It wasn't the roast turkey the boys should have been having, but it was better than the sandwiches he'd seen in his… vision? He didn't know what it was, but he knew he didn't want to end up in a mass grave, didn't want everyone to think of him as a drunken loser. He'd deal with Ratter and Davey later but for now…

He raced to the Shrieking Shack, his breath coming in pants as he burst through the door. But the Shack was empty. There were no sleeping fugitive school boys, no worn blankets. Not even an apple core to show they'd been there. Hagrid had been right. They were long gone. Scabior slumped to the floor, dejected. He'd been so sure that if he found them that would be the start of things changing.

For a moment he considered going back to the pub and helping himself to a bottle of Ogden's Finest. Then he saw Davey's impression of him in his mind's eye and he pushed the mild craving away. No, not anymore. There were plenty of others out there, hiding. He was a good tracker, he could find them, help them instead.

Scabior left the Shack, a new sense of purpose pulling his shoulders back, holding his head high as he disapparated again. He reappeared in the woods, near a riverbank in Wales. He paused, sniffing the air, before making his way cautiously into the trees a little way away.

"Stay there," a voice said and Scabior froze, slowly raising his hands in the air and dropping the food laden sack to the floor. "Who are you?"

"Colin," he replied without thinking. "My name's Colin."

"And what's your business 'Colin'?" the tone of the voice implied the owner didn't believe him.

"I'm just… Who are you?" he asked warily.

"Never you mind," another voice said.

"Stun him!" a third voice, a younger voice called.

"Wait!" Scabior decided to gamble. "I'm hiding. From the – You Know Who's lot."

"'Course you are," the first voice said. "How do we know you're not lying?"

"I'm not," Scabior said hurriedly.

"He doesn't look like a Death Eater," the second voice said. "And he's not a Snatcher, he's not wearing the red arm band."

Scabior thanked his stars he hadn't worn his usual trench-coat, the red arm band was permanently attached to his left sleeve. "I'm not. I'm… muggleborn," the words sounded strange in his mouth. "I just want somewhere to sit and eat, that's all. I don't want any trouble."

He could hear the voices conferring, still conscious of wands trained on him, but he kept his hands raised, his eyes wide, his every pore radiating innocence.

"Where's your wand?" the third voice, the younger one, called to him.

"I've got a wand holder on, it's on my hip. Right," he called back.

After a moment, two men stepped forward. "I'm Ted," said the owner of the first voice. "This is Dirk."

"Colin," Scabior said. "Still. How many are you?"

"Three men, two goblins. That a problem?"

"Not for me, Rebellion's rebellion, innit? I don't care about species, as long as they're against You Know Who."

This seemed to be all of the appeasement the man named Dirk needed and he visibly relaxed. "Come over – slowly- just… keep your hands where we can see them," he said.

Scabior nodded. "What about my sack? It's got food in."

The man named Ted looked back into the trees. "Dean, come and get this." A youth, about seventeen, slunk out of the woods. He approached Scabior slowly, his wand trained on him, before he darted forward and picked up the sack. Scabior made no move, just watching the boy as his mind whirred. He knew the name Dean, there was a Dean Thomas on his list. And Dirk was surely Dirk Cresswell. Wanted too, by the Ministry. He was worth more, given that he'd already escaped custody once.

But Ted… It couldn't be Ted Tonks. It couldn't be. He was worth a hundred Galleons at the last count, rumour had it Bellatrix wanted him dead especially. Scabior watched them slowly. A possible one hundred and fifty Galleons, standing there before him.

One hundred and fifty Galleons. Enough to get him the nicest room in The Leaky Cauldron for a night or two. And a decent bottle of whiskey. And a woman the right side of thirty. That would show the others he wasn't to be pitied, to be ridiculed. He could still change his life, he could just start tomorrow. After all, it was Christmas. Didn't he deserve a nice Christmas?

Scabior forgot about Colin Creevey, about the ghosts and the lessons and his past. Instead of men before him he saw gold. And so he did what he felt he had to do.

He didn't get his one hundred and fifty Galleons. Sadly, Dean Thomas and one of the goblins escaped. But he got the others. One hundred and forty Galleons, in the end. The Ministry didn't mind if the mudbloods or the goblins were dead or alive. And Scabior got the Christmas he felt he deserved.


End file.
